by Julia Anders
Back on the main road she asked, "Where are we going to stop tonight?"
"I thought it would be pleasant to spend tomorrow on Lake Annecy. There's a grand luxe hotel in the town of Annecy, but if we go around to the other side of the lake to Talloires there's an inn with a fabulous dining room, the Auberge du Pere Bise. The inn also has a few rooms, fifteen or sixteen, I think, and I've booked us two for tonight and tomorrow night."
They had to leave the main road as they turned toward Annecy. The terrain grew hillier and the road twisted and turned continually. They ran into a sudden rainstorm, a regular downpour, which the windscreen wipers could hardly take care of, but Jason didn't slacken his pace.
Lynne knew the road must be slippery and she was pale with fright as the car swooped and swerved, up, down, and around sharp curves. She was determined not to say anything to betray her fears but sat clinging to the door handle for dear life. After three-quarters of an hour they ran out of the storm and she let out a long sigh of relief. "Good old reliable Clark Kent," she murmured, patting the dashboard gratefully.
The town of Annecy looked charming but Jason said, "I think we'll drive straight on around to Talloires and get settled in. We can explore Annecy tomorrow."
The auberge was delightful, situated right on the edge of the water of one of the most beautiful lakes Lynne had ever seen. It was long and narrow, the water almost an ultramarine blue, and all around it rose lush green mountains.
"We're lucky in the weather," Jason told her. "When it's fine like this, there are tables on the veranda so we can eat directly on the water."
As they were seated at one of the choicest tables, Lynne said, "It's all so beautiful, I hardly know where to look—at the water, the mountains, or at the flowers."
"Look at the colorful sails on those boats," Jason said. "That turquoise one next to the yellow."
"They could serve nothing more than a crust of bread in a setting like this and no one would notice the difference," Lynne said happily.
She was quite wrong about that, however. The Auberge du Pere Bise deserved its three stars. When the food arrived, she was happy to concentrate on every delicious morsel.
"That mousse de foies de volatile was out of this world," she said. "I hope I'm not eating my way out of my new wardrobe."
Jason glanced at her slender waist. "I don't see any signs of it yet. Tomorrow night we could try a different place for dinner, but this is the only three-star restaurant in the area."
"I'd love to come back here and try the gratin de queues d'ecrevisses," she said.
Suddenly she started to laugh. "Will you listen to me? I'm acting as if my life depended on a chance to eat a gratin of crayfish, when all the time I know that if I were at home I'd be delighted with a nice tin of kippers."
"But you aren't at home. You're in Talloires," Jason pointed out, smiling. "So drink up your cognac like a good girl, and we'll take a short stroll and make an early night of it so we can get up early and explore."
The next morning they took a boat trip. Each part of the lake seemed lovelier than the last. The tops of the mountains were a kind of misty blue in the morning light, the water dotted with colorful sails.
They drove down to Annecy for lunch and prowled around the picturesque streets of the old part of town near the water's edge. Great white tubs of brilliant red flowers decorated the marina, as small boats bobbed at their moorings in the water beyond.
Dinner that night at the auberge was as marvelous as it had been the night before. In vain Lynne tried to feel guilty at enjoying herself so much. The future and its problems would come soon enough, but for the moment it was impossible not to be relaxed and happy in a place like this.
As they drove away the next morning, Lynne turned with regret from her last glimpse of Lake Annecy. She unfolded the map and studied it. They were heading for Milan. "Which way do we go?" she asked.
"We head for Chamonix and then go through the Mont Blanc tunnel."
The scenery became spectacular as they approached Chamonix, but Lynne considered the tunnel with some trepidation. "Imagine being underground for seven miles with all that great mountain on top of you," she said with a shudder.
"It's not directly on top of you or I admit you'd be rather squashed. It's on top of the tunnel, which is quite another matter. Will it help if I hold your hand as we drive through?"
"Goodness, no. Keep both hands on the wheel. Wouldn't it be awful to have an accident in there? It would probably tie up traffic for miles and how would the ambulance get there?"
He laughed. "You're determined to take a dim view of this, aren't you? Never mind. Mild-mannered Clark Kent will see us through."
Lynne felt even more claustrophobic inside the tunnel than she had expected. The sight of the open sky was glorious at the end, even though it was rather an overcast day and the air was hazy. Still, it couldn't have looked more beautiful to her at that moment if it had been the purest of azures. She was silent for miles and Jason did not try to converse with her. They were well down into the Valle d'Aosta before she began to take her customary interest in their surroundings.
After the gemlike perfection of Annecy and Talloires and the creamy elegance of Paris, Milan seemed dark and dreary.
The traffic pattern in the center of town, which seemed to consist of concentric circles of one-way streets, was confusing in the extreme and Jason was soon swearing under his breath. "Isn't this the same archway we've passed three times already?" he growled. "We may have to get a helicopter lift to set us down in the center of town."
Lynne smiled inwardly. It was reassuring to see that Jason could, after all, make a wrong move.
They found their hotel at last and settled into a suite with a small sitting room between two bedrooms.
Jason looked somewhat weary after the exhausting drive and Lynne was happy to comply when he asked, "Do you mind if we just eat in the hotel and turn in early? Since we'll be here only through tomorrow night, it's going to be a long day if we try to see much of the town."
They would have just tomorrow in Milan, and then the next day Florence—and Tonio.
As they started out the next morning, Jason said, "Of course I know you'll want to see the cathedral first. In fact, we could probably spend the whole day there."
Lynne nodded politely but without much enthusiasm.
Her first sight of it was overwhelming. It was an enormous, soaring structure, every inch of which seemed to be covered with carvings.
"This is the third largest cathedral in Europe," he read from the guide book he had purchased at the hotel desk. "There are one hundred and thirty five spires, each topped with the statue of a saint, and there are nearly three thousand more relief-carved statues on the building proper. Lynne, are you paying attention?"
She had been peering off in another direction but now turned guiltily back. "Oh, uh, yes, of course. The third largest saint in Europe."
He burst into laughter and, taking her arm, turned her around. "All right, I won't tease you anymore. La Scala is down this way."
She gasped. "Jason, you beast! You knew all the time I wanted to see it!"
"Well, since I was reminded in Paris that you're an opera lover, I suspected you might."
The facade was not imposing compared to the cathedral but to anyone who loved opera it was the penultimate; the dream of every singer was to one day sing there.
"Do you suppose I could persuade you to accompany me to the performance tonight?"
"You mean you have tickets?" There were stars in her eyes.
"I called from Paris to be sure of getting them."
"Oh, Jason, you're an angel! Now I'll go and look at the duomo and count all twelve thousand saints if you like."
Though there was a stern warning at the entrance that all visitors must be modestly dressed, inside the atmosphere was much gayer and more casual than in the French cathedrals. People chatted and waved to each other in a relaxed manner.
A white-robed priest c
arrying the chalice and followed by an acolyte swinging a censer approached the altar of a small side chapel, but even then the visitors waiting for the mass did not cease their conversation.
Now that she knew she was actually going to La Scala, Lynne could take pleasure in the beauty and grandeur of the duomo. They spent the whole morning there, even going up on the roof to admire the white marble statues.
Afterward they went to the Gallery of Victor Emmanuel, a huge glass-roofed building with small shops along the sides of the wide central passageway. They ate a light lunch at a cafe which had tables set up in the passage under the glass roof.
"I think I've regained my energy," Lynne said when they had finished. "The guide book says the pictures at the Pinacoteca di Brera are a must. Shall we go there this afternoon?"
She was too excited to taste her dinner that night.
Once inside La Scala, her eyes were wide, memorizing every detail. Just to be within these hallowed walls where so much musical history had been written was joy beyond words. From the four statues of the great Italian operatic composers in the foyer, right down to the lighting fixtures, everything was fascinating to her.
It wasn't until they had been seated for some minutes and she had absorbed every detail of design and decor that she looked at the program in her lap. Lucia di Lammermoor! "Lucia," she whispered.
At intermission Jason said, "I'm not as knowledgeable as you, but it sounded excellent to me and the audience seemed enthusiastic. Is this really a first-rate production?"
"Yes, oh, yes." She nodded, too moved to say more.
She was very quiet on the way back to the hotel afterward. As they reached the lobby, Jason turned to ask if she'd like to go into the bar lounge for a drink, and saw that there were tears streaming down her cheeks. Changing his mind, he took her directly up to their suite, and seating her on the settee, phoned for two cognacs to be sent up.
"Tell me what's troubling you, Lynne."
His voice was so gentle and concerned that to her embarrassment the tears came faster. She groped in her bag for a handkerchief.
"Is it something I've done? Are you unhappy with our agreement?"
She shook her head.
"Something to do with the opera?"
"Lucia," she said faintly. "Lucia was the last role I sang—will ever sing."
He stood staring at her in bewilderment, and at that moment the door buzzer sounded. He took the cognacs from the waiter and, putting them on the coffee table in front of her, sat down beside her.
"I don't understand, but I'd like to," he said, handing her one of the glasses. "Try to drink a little of this."
She sipped some of the smooth, warming liquid and wiped her eyes. "I'm so sorry; I'm behaving like a fool. I never dreamed it would affect me that way. I wanted to hear it. I truly did. It just—brought it all back so clearly."
"Brought all what back?"
"I trained to be a singer, since I was a child," she said. "The Maestro under whom I worked sometimes produced opera, using his London students for special festivals in the smaller towns or at universities. We had just done a production of Lucia di Lammermoor when our bus was in an accident on the way back to London. There was"—she stopped, choked, and went en—"there was damage to my laryngeal nerve. I can never sing again."
He looked appalled. "Oh, my poor child."
"I was very lucky, they told me," she said carefully. "Because eventually I was able to talk—almost normally. It could have been so much worse. I could have been maimed—or even killed. But I'm perfectly all right, except for just that one little defect—my voice."
She put her face in her hands. "I'm so ashamed of making such a scene. I don't cry about it anymore, not since I found out the final verdict from the doctors. I don't know what came over me tonight."
"It was my fault," he said contritely, "making you listen to that very opera."
"Oh, no," she protested. "I wouldn't have missed going to La Scala for anything. And I still love the opera. I always will. I couldn't have avoided hearing Lucia forever—I wouldn't even have tried to. I never dreamed I'd act like such a—a baby."
"You're not acting like a baby," he said fiercely. "It's only natural—"
"It's not just that I can't sing," she said, looking up at him through a mist. "Millions of people can't sing. I suppose very few people are able to fulfill their dearest ambition. It's just that—having prepared all my life for that one thing, it seems as if I have no purpose in life now, no spot to fill, nowhere I'm needed. I'm just cast loose—drifting."
Suddenly she broke down and wept and his arms were cradling her, holding her close. She leaned against him as the tears fell, grateful for his solid strength, grateful to be letting out the pain that had been bottled up for so long.
"Of course you have a purpose," he was murmuring. "Of course you're needed." His voice went on comforting and soothing her, and then he was pushing back her hair from her face and his mouth was against her cheek as he went on saying, "My poor little dear."
And then his lips were on hers and it was a comforting kiss, comforting to know someone cared about her unhappiness. She felt as if she was drawing strength from his firm, warm mouth. But then it changed and his lips were no longer gently soothing. They were seeking hungrily and his arms tightened around her, crushing her against him.
She never knew quite how but her arms went around him, one hand to the back of his neck, the other moving across his taut-muscled shoulders, pressing him even closer against her breast.
She was so inexperienced that she was unprepared for the rush of warm excitement that flamed through her body. Her mouth was as eager as his with yearning and searching.
And then abruptly he thrust her away and stood up. She felt as if she had fallen a long way, from a high place into a void.
He went to the window, his back toward her. "I— I don't know what to say, Lynne." His voice was hoarse. "I didn't intend to— I don't know how it happened. I know we had an agreement, and I swear I meant to keep it. I'm bitterly ashamed. Please believe that. It won't happen again."
She was reeling from the double shock of her awakened emotions and now from his rejection of her. Bitterly ashamed. Of course he was embarrassed, making love, even for just a moment, to a nobody like her with whom he had a purely business agreement, as he had just reminded her.
"Can you forgive me?" He turned toward her now, painfully. "I never meant to— It was just that you were so—"
"So maudlin and weeping on your shoulder," she said. She never knew afterward how she kept her voice even. "Of course I understand. There's nothing to forgive. It was of no importance."
With her head very high she walked into her own room, shot the bolt, and threw herself across the bed. She squeezed her eyes very tightly together. She could not even allow herself to cry. If he were still in the sitting room he might hear her.
At last she got up and undressed. Automatically she slid into the chiffon nightgown Madelaine Cheney had given her. She looked up and caught sight of herself in the mirror. "What am I?" she whispered. She looked like a wanton. Her hair was wild around her face. Her eyes were inky black. She could see her body through the transparent fabric of the gown, the swelling breasts, the rounded hips, the firm thighs, and every inch of her on fire with longing for the touch of his hands, her whole body aching to strain and press against the hard strength of him, to be devoured, consumed by him.
With a moan she tore off the gown and, scrambling through her suitcase, found a pair of cotton pajamas and put them on.
She got into bed.
She couldn't even hate him; she could only hate herself. It wasn't Jason's fault. He was a healthy, virile man. Their situation of forced intimacy, virtually spending all their time together, had built-in dangers that she had not foreseen. Probably he had not foreseen them either. And when she had broken down and practically forced herself into his arms, no wonder he had responded—for a moment—until he remembered that she was not the girl h
e was in love with, that she was only an employee.
Right now he was probably filled with disgust at the memory of having held her that way.
If only she could hate him. It would be so much easier, but he had been kind to her, a good companion until that humiliating moment in the other room. No, it was she who was to blame. Her body and her heart had betrayed her. Even now she wanted him, knew that, over the past days, she had fallen irrevocably in love with him.
There was only one small crumb of comfort. Jason would never know.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She had not thought it possible that she would sleep, but at last she did. Mercifully it was a deep and dreamless sleep, but she awoke early. She was glad because it gave her time to sort out her thoughts before she had to face him.
One thing she determined—she was going to have to use every bit of acting ability she possessed. She must pretend that nothing of importance had happened, which meant that she could not allow herself the luxury of drawing into a shell. She must seem as friendly and interested in the sights they were seeing as before, because if he should guess what last night had meant to her, what she had discovered about her feelings for him, her humiliation would be unbearable.
How embarrassing it would be for him, in love with Justine, to discover that the silly girl he had hired to play the part of his bride was taking her role to heart. What an impossible situation.
No, she must give an appearance of normality so that he would never guess how difficult every moment in his company was for her.
She was dressed before she heard the waiter buzz with the breakfast trays. She emerged from her bedroom saying brightly, "I overslept and I'm not packed yet. I'll just have a quick cup of coffee and then go and finish with it."
"There's no hurry," he said mildly. "It's only about a four-hour drive. There's an autostrada we can follow the whole route."
If his eyes were searching her face, she was concentrating too carefully on pouring out her coffee to see it. Only when she sorted through the little tins of jam and automatically pushed his favorite strawberry toward him, did her hand falter, but she quickly recovered.